


Aidòs

by Basilico



Series: Let's meet again someday [4]
Category: One Piece
Genre: But maybe not for Buggy, Frustration, M/M, Pain, Permanent Injury, Tears, Training, call - Freeform, character building I guess?, sword - Freeform, we all know Shanks is changing from now on, we also got some nostalgia here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23351518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basilico/pseuds/Basilico
Summary: He did it for Luffy.At first adrenaline covered the pain, but eventually it showed up, hitting Shanks as soon as he sailed.It was atrocious; the wound burned and itched, and the blood he'd lost!But Shanks was strong, determined. That was a plain inconvenient: nothing he couldn't bear....And maybe he should have known Buggy always answered his denden moshi.
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Buggy
Series: Let's meet again someday [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1496558
Comments: 6
Kudos: 72





	Aidòs

**Author's Note:**

> Aidòs comes from Greek and meant shame. But a specific shame: what was accepted or not from the society (when one should be brave, or cautious, or have a certain etiquette; even when it is legit for a hero to cry) If you're interested in this kind of stuff, the Study is from Eric Dodds.
> 
> BUT ENOUGH WITH THAT. Have a nice time reading!

He did it for Luffy.

At first adrenaline covered the pain, but eventually it showed up, hitting Shanks as soon as he sailed.  
It was atrocious; the wound burned and itched, and the blood he'd lost!

But Shanks was strong, determined. That was a plain inconvenient: nothing he couldn't bear.

It was annoying; having the bone cut, the blood drained, the wound covered in a tedious, almost puzzling pattern of bandages that had to be done right and daily  
Sometimes at night Shanks wished for an improvise fever to hit him; for he desired to feel dull, calm, and let days and days pass by without him noticing.  
He could have fell in a trance let's say... 370 miles away from Romance Dawn, waking up weeks away at the Reverse Mountain. There would have been Crocus, greeting him with a:"Hey Shanks! What happened to your arm? Hm... That's definitively a 'sell your two-hands sword and buy a fork instead' kind of disease!".

Shanks chuckled, that sounded a bit like a diagnosis Crocus would give.

The worst part of all the situation though was the fatigue: he often slept fourteen hours a day, wasn't able to spar, nor even have a proper exercise session, and the headaches! Those were rare but gosh did they hurt.

Benn used to reassure his captain, saying that after a couple of weeks, everything would have been better; and that perhaps in about two or three months, it would have all come back to normal. Almost.

But Shanks could feel that was wrong: he'd try at least four times a day to grab something with his left hand, he'd feel the missing limb sore, or itching, and he'd startle sometimes when waking up he'd felt a void instead of the arm.

"We're going in ten minutes, do you want us to buy anything specific?" Benn said; he and Shanks were the last ones in the cantine. It was 2 p.m. and most of the crew was getting ready for a quick visit on an island.

"Your pick, I don't really need anything right now". Shanks' voice was gruff; he would have liked to go for a walk, but it was too hot anyway and he just couldn't sweat due to the bandages.

"How are you feeling today?"

Shanks was a pretty open guy, so "Bad" he sighed, "I'm going crazy. It's already been two weeks, it's frustrating".

The older man smiled, "You're a hyperactive brat"

"First the eye, now the arm, I give it one year before I lose a leg" Benn couldn't tell if his captain was joking.

"Considering all you've been through, it's a miracle you're even alive"

Shanks scoffed. "I just want to recover, I'm tired of feeling so... stiff and y'know, weak"

Benn lit a sigarette and looked at the redhead. "Why don't you cry a bit?"

Shanks seemed a little taken aback. "Why would I?" He was pale.

The other one blew some smoke "You see, when I was your age-"

"Stop, you're not that old" Shanks smiled.

"Thanks I guess" he smiled too, then "Everyone cries: toddlers cry for food, for getting hurt, because they're sad, for an adult to notice'em; but they don't give a shit about what others think: they just cry, It's a way to express them self. Children cry for the same stuff, but at a certain point they discover pride; this just means they say 'I don't cry' but end up doing it anyways. Now kids are fun; they have plenty of motives and justification to cry: the environment changes, their body and mind changes; but alas there's the desire of being treated as adults, to be strong and independent. Of course they do cry over friends, or out of frustration, or for some stuff that really hurts them deep inside; but they hide it, they regret it and feel weak for being vulnerable. Now adults: adults don't cry, and if they do, it's because they really need it, and can't take anymore whatever they're crying about. You can cry a couple of minutes after a month of everlasting torment and frustration, or for someone who's passed away, or again because you're life is changing and it's never coming back to normal, because you've lost something important that is not coming back either". 

He blew some smoke again. "Adults don't regret crying, they don't give a shit; real problems sometimes are too overwhelming to care about what others think. Some people do it in front of friends or family, others rather do it on their own, but no one really regrets it. You feel weak? Cry, later on you'll be better".

And with that, Benn got up and left the room.

Shanks laid his forehead on the table; he didn't need to cry, and yet he could feel he wasn't good at all, without really knowing why.

The red haired man was well aware of his condition, he wasn't in denial, nor he'd forgot the insufferable pain of the very first day. But maybe he was suffering due to the void he felt: He found himself to be thinking about how, clenching a fist, one could feel every muscle of the arm contracting in a firm movement. Shanks tried to do it, with the only result of a disturbing tension of the deltoid, and an uglier and painful contraction of his residual limb. It hurt, and when he drew his hand to the burning area, he found nothing but his ribs, and held those so tight his hand trembled.

that was the last straw. Shanks stormed out of the cantine, then again out on the deck, grabbing his sword on the way.

He just needed a little proof he could still be strong and fast, that he could adapt, that no matter the loss, he was still worthy.  
Shanks furiously walked to the middle of the deck, taking off his black cape and trowing it on the ground. He took a deep breath and tried to concentrate. Some of the new crewmates who'd remained guarding the ship looked their captain lazily, not entirely fond of his intentions.

Shanks unsheathed his sword with so much vehemence he stumbled to the right.

"Easy, easy..." Me muttered, while noticing how his whole body was slightly influenced by the sword's weight. He'd never had such issues before.

The captain now pictured a target, along with all the vulnerable spots from the top down: throat, stomach, lower abdomen; then laterally: shoulders, ribs, waists, hips. Again, he took a deep breath, and with that scheme in mind, slid his left foot behind, scared that pushing with only the right part of his body would have made him fall.  
Now, with a tight grip, and all the determination of this world, Shanks slightly balanced onto his left leg, leaped forward, and started thrusting the air, following that exact sequence: throat, stomach, lower abdomen. He tried not to press it too much, so that his movements could be precise and fast.

The same approach revealed to be a little more tedious with the lateral hits: the redhead immediately felt dragged by the sword's weight, and noticed the reprise time between cleaves to be excessively long. Nothing that couldn't be fixed though, and thus Shanks found a different balance and decreased his firmness.

That was the proof he could do it. Yes, he was already sweating and had to stay terribly focused, but alas it was fine. He was using a sword again.

The redhead was so hyped he started moving as in a real fight, faster and faster. The others surrounding him were speechless, as they admired their captain changing position: from right to left, and then four feet behind, following diagonals and doing reverse pivots; all just to find the perfect timing to push with his left foot, jerk his hip and thrust the air again, and again, and again. Stomach, throat, lower abdomen, then another pattern, and why not, some parries. No one dared to speak as Shanks cut the air fast; and with a certain elegance aimed low, then up, and smoothly slid back just to make a high parry.

It was magic. The sword seemed to vibrate at every thrust, and Shanks had those euphoric eyes coming from adrenaline, along with short breath.

In a second, it was a dance. A dance made of leaps, and hip's snaps; of thrusts and balance, of movements so accurate one could have seen the imaginary opponent. It felt so good that Shanks forgot to contain himself, and lost balance after a spin.

Oh, but falling at that point was not an option. The man came back in position in half an heartbeat, and kept sparring without restraints. Alright, he knew the technique, but that alone wasn't enough. Fighting wasn't worth it if he couldn't do it at full strength.

Thus every movement fastened, intensified; and Shanks kept stumbling, losing position and precision. A cleave to the right shoulder became a crooked decapitation so intense, the captain made another spin and had to block the sword by hitting the deck. But he was still filled with determination. So he tried again, and the sword kept swinging, and Shanks kept following, losing balance, getting slower and having to stop a little more every time. The left arm wasn't only necessary because that was a two hands sword; it was a fundamental compensation, a pin for specific movements, a balance-restorer, and with or without sword, its muscles were indispensable for a reliable strength.

When did he hear the last one? Perhaps Rayleigh had taught him...

The more he failed, the more frustration grew;

The more frustration grew, the more he smashed the sword around.

The more he smashed the sword around, the more he noticed that even at full strength, all of that was nothing compared to his usual performance.

And in that pitiful dance, now made of groans, and sweat, and insufferable strain,

Shanks understood that he had to stop. And God, did it hurt...

He stuck the sword in the deck's wood, and let himself fall on the knees; his forehead pressing onto the blade; his hand clenching the hilt with desperate rage.

Come to think of it, Shanks started to feel tired again; his muscle hurt like hell for the immane tension; his breath was short, and he'd sweated so much, the wound was burning from deep inside... probably the stitches opened up.

the few crew members all around him came closer, and called him with tender voices, and whispered reassuring words and patted him on the back.

That's when Shanks begun to sob, having a muffled hiccup every now and then; until tears started falling down on the deck.

It was over.

After changing the bandages in his cabin, Shanks stared numbly at the mirror for half an hour; first focusing on his stump, then looking up to his swollen and reddish eyes

Benn had talked about a minutes-lasting lament, but The redhead wasn't even close finishing; it wasn't a loud and desperate howl, but tears kept falling, and his chest kept jolting.

At a certain point he started smiling; thinking about his past, and how he used to hide his tears. But at the time it was fun: playing the tough guy around adults, screaming "I'm not crying!" with plain teary eyes and clenched fists.  
But at least at that time he was good with the sword: a promising young portent.

Shanks spent every day from the accident saying how the whole situation was not a big deal, nothing more than a simple inconvenient with a slightly longer recovery time. He'd got it by now: that wasn't a cut on the chest or a broken bone; it definitively was a "sell your two-hands sword and buy a fork instead" kind of disease... and perhaps the cure was a "buckle up knowing it's all gone and it's never coming back" one.

He bit his lower lip and burst out crying again, in the silence of his room, accepting once and for all that a chapter of his life had come to an end.

Shanks felt vulnerable, he was vulnerable! And also strangely lonely. He'd been thinking about his old crew all day; feeling light and warm when picturing Crocous, and Rayleigh, and Roger... oh Roger would have sat next to him and smiled, and praised him for his courage. After him would have come Rouge, with a motivational speech and another warm smile. In the end, at his side would have come someone who'd waited for everyone else to leave Shanks at peace, and would have spent with him the rest of the afternoon, then the evening, the whole night and day after.

Shanks widened his eyes, then got up and grabbed the denden moshi: he wanted to give that person a proper goodbye... he was leaving East Blue after all, maybe forever.

It wasn't a easy number to track down, and it took him another half an hour of calls and researches, but in the end

"You've reached the Big Top, captain Buggy's shi-" someone answered.

"Buggy! It's me, Shanks!" He didn't notice how cracked and desperate his voice was.

An awkward silence followed; in those seconds Shanks realized what he wanted from Buggy wasn't just a goodbye. He wanted him to look at the stump and make a joke about it, then come close and say everything would have been ok. That even if they were following different paths, they would have stayed in touch and supported each other, and...

"Sorry... I-I am just a new entry. Captain Buggy isn't here at the moment", his tone was strange.

The redhead felt numb, and tried to contain his broken voice. "Can you tell him that... that something big came up, and I am leaving the East Blue?" He didn't give the other one a chance to reply, "Are you even still in the East Blue? We're a week away from the Grand line. Tell Buggy to meet me on the last island 50 miles south the Reverse Mountain".

Again, silence followed.

"Please, tell him that I.., I'm hurt, and I just need him. Thanks". And he hung up.

Of course Shanks went to that Island, and waited seven, nine, twelve days...

But nobody came.

And maybe he should have known that Buggy always answered his denden moshi.

**Author's Note:**

> I spent all this time writing a different work about this ship, 
> 
> BUT I deleted it by accident because apparently I can't use my keyboard.  
> It was about ch. 967 but I guess it'll have to wait.  
> I wanted to publish it later on anyway so it's ok.
> 
> Are you in quarantine? How're you holding up?
> 
> As always feel free to leave every kind of advice, and next one is Marineford.
> 
> Bye!!


End file.
